The solution rushed upon him,--MIDDLERIB must be _in_ the organ.

He crept round to the handle and bore his weight on it.

It was too true; the unhappy wretch had cut a hole in the bellows and
crawled in. But for his ruling passion he would have escaped.

There were a few muffled groans as the handle slowly descended upon the
doomed man, and as the breath rushed out of his body into his favorite
pipe, the wild 'high C of agony that ran through the sacred edifice
told them that all was over.

Let us draw a vail over the horrid picture."

* * *

I was very much interested in this story, very much indeed, and so I
jostled the long-haired man--who was about falling asleep--and asked him
if anything was done to this wicked SLUKER.

He looked at me reproachfully. "What's the matter with you, my friend?"
he said, in the same melancholy voice. "Don't you know who I am? I write
for the _Ledger_, and whenever 'I draw a vail, etc.,' that ends it, that
does!"

As we stepped from the steamer to the landing, I observed a youth of
about six summers dressed in the most elaborately agonizing manner. He
had two Schutzenfest targets in his cuffs; in one hand he held an
enormous cane, in the other a cigar, and through an eyeglass he gazed at
the ankles on the gang-plank with an air of patient weariness with this